


Snippets of Me

by Japo_Chan23



Category: Original Work
Genre: All of these are real downers, Beaches, Cigarettes, Cutting, Death, Guilt, I don't want to put character death because this was my peer, I have no fucking idea what I'm doing, I will not disrespect them by calling them a character, I'm Sorry, I've had these all saved for some reason so I decided why not post them on ao3, Implications to blow jobs, Implied/Referenced Sexual Harassment, Just a lot of scratching apparently, Manipulation, Memoirs, Memories, Mentions of Fingering, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, Scratching, Self Confidence Issues, Self Harm, Self-Denial, Sexual Harassment, Suicide Idealization, Teen Angst, They are real and I hope that they are at peace, Underage Smoking, Victim Blaming, i guess, it's unintentional i swear, so i guess this is a memoir, that I had decided to write based off of words and such, this is all just based off of me, this is just a bunch of short things, whoops
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-01-07
Updated: 2018-07-28
Packaged: 2019-03-01 11:29:03
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 7
Words: 6,673
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13293909
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Japo_Chan23/pseuds/Japo_Chan23
Summary: A series of short stories based off of a word, and how it relates to me as a person, or my life in general.Starring me.





	1. Beaches

People love the beach.

Having lived near a beach for almost all of my life, it was ironic to find that I hated the beach. Crowded areas mean interaction and wading through people. I don’t have anxiety, not that I’m aware of anyways, but being surrounded by people never really felt like a nice thing to me. It always just seemed like something was wrong, or that something was going to go  _ wrong _ , or that someone was going to see me. So being around people, other human beings who, even if they say they aren’t, are always judgmental. Everyone gets judged.

I’m not exactly self conscious of my body, I am, but not that bad. My insecurities still prevent me from actually going to the beach though. From talking to other people.

I still hate going to the beach, though.

Hot sand flooding onto my shoes and getting stuck in the spaces between my toes, burning the bottom of my feet as if I had just walked everywhere in the world barefooted, without rest. People crowded everywhere amongst the beach, umbrellas raised so they could relax under the shade, staying hidden from the world, from the sun, with a book, or something of the sort. Children attempting to run around on the uneven surface in their swimsuits, screaming loudly or trying to bury themselves or their siblings in the sand. The people were the most annoying part, really. The sand was annoying as well, but it was sand. It’s not like you could stay pissed off at a bunch of grains of sand that weren’t even animate.

The people, the sun, the children, the water, the heat, the sand, it was all terrible. Building sand castles was a waste of time, as was trying to bury yourselves. People who came to read on the beach in the shade shouldn’t have wasted their time, and just crack open a window. 

I hate the beach.

The sun shining down on me, causing me to constantly squint large eyes that weren’t hidden behind prescription glasses. Pale skin boiling in a pot over flames that went on for eternity, sweat travelling abundantly down my limbs and torso. It was terrible.

Going to the beach during that day, was always something that I had despised. There wasn’t anything interesting about it, and had always bored me. 

The last time I went to the beach, I ended up having to stay crouched on the beach while everyone else was swimming, for my great aunt decided that we should go to a concert. I was not informed of where this concert took place at, and just my luck, to have it be at a beach. I was expecting a park, at the least. I hated that day. I try not to think about it a lot.

Recently, I went to the beach. 

No one was there. No people to stumble pass, no umbrellas to look over, no one to worry about drowning, no children shrieking as they ran away from the waves.

It was just me, the moon, and the lake.

I had taken my shoes off that day, walking tentatively over cool sand that I curled my toes in. The moonlight provided enough light. Chicago could be seen in the distance. The waves were loud, crashing against the shore angrily, one wave after another, never ceasing.

It was beautiful.

I love the beach. Not when there were people who were nearly nude, or where there seemed like there was no possible way to find a place to settle down and just rest, but when the moon is out, and seems abandoned by everyone, aside from me, the city lights of Chicago, the cold sand, and the night sky. 

I hate beaches. 

But only during the daytime. 


	2. Smoke

Whenever I have read literature, a majority of the time, there were no characters that had smoked anything, ever. I understood why, of course. It is generally frowned upon, by many people. 

But, when I do read some form of literature that does include some character smoking, whether it be cigarettes or marijuana, they were smoking. It was always described as wisps of smoke rising in the air, twisting and curling around before dissipating. The way it was described, the smoke, was exquisite. It sounded beautiful. The way wisps of smokes would just gently rise up in the air from the lit cigarette or joint. 

My opinions on smoking are nonexistent, for I am a smoker.

Smoker might not be the right term for that. I haven’t smoked much in my life, and is just something that has been picked up again recently.

I am currently young, not an adult yet.

It first started with an electric cigarette. It was my father’s. One day, I got curious, and stole it from the table that resided next to the recliner late at night. I was scared. I felt like that moment that my fingertips even grazed the metal, my father would immediately come in, and start yelling at me, telling me not to turn out like him. 

I had took the electric cigarette, and waltzed right into my parent’s room. I sat there, knees bent and close to my chest, and placed it against my mouth. I watched my father enough to know what to do. I held down a button, and shakily inhaled, before coughing. Everyone coughs the first time smoke enters their lungs.

This went on for some time. Of course, it only happened around 3 times that year. One day, when I was switching out the filter for it, I accidently broke the whole thing. I felt weak; vulnerable. I didn’t know what to do, and for a period of time, that was my escape from everything, even if it was a quick whiff. It was broken, and I couldn’t cope with my emotions any other way.

A year or so later, my grandfather stops by for thanksgiving. 

He was sitting on the loveseat, facing away from me. I was speaking to my father. I acted as if I was going to head downstairs, or just walk around. In actuality, I was reaching into the pockets of my father and my grandfather’s jackets, hoping to grasp at a box of cigarettes.

My father, who always gets Turkish Gold, had it on him, as far as I knew. My grandfather, who had a pack of menthol, left them in his coat. I opened the box, grabbed three, and slipped them in my sleeve. I wore oversized clothing; it looked natural. 

A small part of me had hoped that someone would have caught me, scolded me. Forced me to get help of some sort. 

I didn't know what to do.

I took the three cigarettes, ran to my room. Everything was so tempting. That night, I was a mess. I was pissed, and I needed something, whether it be nicotine or liquor, I was fine with either, but I longed for both.

Fortunately for me, my mother and aunt were looking for cups. Specific cups, that we rarely use, which was quite suspicious. My aunt then walked it, and it had smelled like wine.

I was caught off guard.

_ I _ had drunk all of the wine.

It was later revealed to be Hennessey mixed with Coca-Cola.

At one point, I had grabbed my lighter, the one I used to light candles, and a cigarette that I hid underneath my blanket. I walked into the bathroom, turned the air on, and sat on the toilet seat, fumbling for a moment, before lighting the cigarette. 

My hands barely shook, but I coughed and wheezed a couple times. This was fairly new, but I didn’t mind. I tried to blow all of the smoke up at the vents, but at one point, I sat there, hunched over myself, hand over my forehead, and cigarette almost left unnoticed. 

It was right then and there, I decided that I was, indeed, a mess, and that I was the most disappointing person in the family.

I had burned the cigarette out quickly, disposing it in the trashcan, and spraying perfume in the bathroom.

It smelled sweet to me, for some reason. I was comforted by that thought.

Later on, I saw my sister walk in, and at one point, when I was talking with her, she pointed out that it smelled disgusting.

Like it smelled like cigarettes.

I panicked internally, and the first thought i had, was blame your grandfather. Your sister would believe you.

I had them moved the cigarettes into an empty glasses case, and still have two left. I would’ve had one, if I had decided to bring one to school, to smoke during lunch. That option was very tempting, but a voice in the back of my head said I was only doing it for attention, so I paid attention to it and ignored everyone, only telling two people about what had happened. 

The disappointing part, was that it wasn't whisks of smokes that curled around you and floated upwards softly. It was just smoke that wrapped tightly around your neck, telling you soft whispers of comfort and nothing, until you pass out from asphyxiation.

Smoking was something that I don't know to do, but I know I will end up doing. 

It’s depressing. Knowing that you ended up as the disappointment that your parents were trying to keep you safe from. 


	3. Idealization

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> TW: Suicide idealization

The concept of forming ideas is something very complex in my mind, yet so confusingly simple. The way we can just create so many ideas boggles my mind, because it seems complex in theory, yet is simple in practice.

I have ideas, thoughts, that I think about a lot nowadays. 

It’s calming, yet concerning, and it’s been like that for a very long time. 

I would always dream of clean streets where cars stopped, or of buildings so tall that they touched the heavens, sometimes of a peaceful sleep with soft blankets.

Of course, there was always something slightly off about those ideas, these creations, my corner filled with bittersweet tranquility. 

There would be blood spilt on the streets, cars stopping for the young teenager who jumped in front of the car, of feet dangling over the edge in hopes of actually seeing what it’s like on the other side, instead of fingers grazing the surface. Of a still chest with a silent heart, wrapped in cold blankets, and an abundance of pills in a stomach.

Suicide is something serious, and it isn't what I want to do. 

Yet, the longing I feel for death is overwhelming at points. 

When it comes to that point, my thoughts always stray from fields as far as the eye can see, to buildings that overlooked bush streets. 

My mind is a cluttered mess, and these idealizations of suicide never stay for long.

That doesn't change the fact that they were once there, no matter for how long.

While I do tell people I have ideas, I don't tell them of what. 

I’m sure it’s hard for some people, but it’s just confusing for me. For others, when it comes to me.

I’m not going to end my life, as tempting as it is. Yet, I can still be described as suicidal. 

Suicide idealization can give you such label.

The thought of becoming a statistic unnerves me. “Suicide is a private thing.” While that is sort of true, becoming a statistic isn't something I wish to be known as. A percentage for a year, with every other teen that couldn't take it anymore.

I don't like my ideas, sometimes. My thoughts.

I try to change them into stories; something I can write, something I can share to the world.

Something that matters greatly to me, but wouldn't even be a thought in others. So, writing about my ideas, my thoughts, my feelings, my actions, my consequences, just me. My suicidal tendencies falls under that category, but ends up categorized as idealization.

Because that's all that is. Idealization of suicide. 

I’m definitely glorifying suicide, death. Not existing. I'm sure it isn't great. But if you were to ask me what I think happens after death, I wouldn't be able to tell you. 

I don't care what happens, really. I’ll just shrug. “You’ll find out later.” My one wish, is that it isn't like being alive, or that it isn't like how my life was. It was shitty enough. 

Suicide idealization isn't the best thing. And sometimes, I don't think about it. Other times it's the only thing I think about. But I won’t commit suicide. I won't end my life. 

My shaky hands won't be able to. I could scream and kick and scratch at my wrists until I bleed, until it scabs over, and that's all I'll do. Self harm is the closest I can get. Even though I don't cut even lines into my thighs anymore, my wrists are still covered with scars from constant scratching, over and over again. 

Ugly, horrendous, disgusting. 

I can't kill myself. I’m too much of a pussy to do so. I’m too cowardice to end it all.

Idealization is the closest I can get. 


	4. Harm

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> TW: Cutting, excessive scratching.

Despite the fact that I am perfectly okay in this time and age, aside from the fact that I’m depressed (and the possibility of other issues), whenever I talk to a counselor now, or anyone, and if they questioned me about self harm, I would tell them “no, I don’t harm myself”. 

The fact of the matter is, I don’t want to. Not anymore.

There was a period of time in my life, two years ago, where a clean razor would grace it’s presence to me, and would soon be dirtied, covered in specks of blood, leaving my thighs littered with marks, soon to be scars. It was a period of my life that I do not think about. Being so depressed that I resulted in harming myself. I viewed it as disgusting at the time, but I couldn’t stop, not until I had called a hotline, confused, and hadn’t hurt myself in such a way.

I like to think that yes, I haven’t harmed myself. Despite the fact that I technically do.

Self harm can come in ways that aren’t just cutting one’s self out of desperation, or depression, or euphoria. The blood itself is something I don’t like seeing, knowing that  _ I did that _ . It always made me feel like shit. 

Last year, I had somewhere to go, with the rest of my grade. I didn’t want to be there, and I didn’t like it. Eyes trained on me, glancing at me, the fact that I didn’t belong there at the time, my teacher throwing shade towards me. I didn’t want to be there, and the nervousness wasn’t something I could deal with. 

At the time, I was with someone, but I didn’t want to be near them. I was too nervous. 

It resulted with my wrist being scratched up, bloodied. Skin broken. It was a horrendous sight, and one that was frowned upon. I avoided looking at it. 

A week later, I scratched at the back of my hand until the same thing happened.

So now I have a scar on the back of my hand, and on my wrist. 

That was around a year or so ago, nothing big. So I don’t tell anyone about that, and it’s just been nothing too bad. I pick at cuticles and my nails, but that’s fine.

Recently, I was looking back on last year, some choices I made, some texts someone sent me. I was an absolute mess. There’s a post I made, that I didn’t bother to take down, that’s on Tumblr. It’s an absolute mess, and I was messaging someone about a request they sent me, and that I was apologetic about the fact that I left them hanging for months, and that I couldn’t do their request anymore. I didn’t bother to make it look formal, or correct (spelling and grammar wise), and when questioned about it, it threw me off. I was a complete mess, a wreck.

It was disgusting. 

I was scratching at my ankle, and now it’s just scabbed over, nothing big. 

I had laid down at one point that night, and instead of scratching at my arm, I ended up scratching at the back of my neck. Now it looks like absolute shit, and it’s so disgusting to look at.

My friend suggest I get an undercut, and I had agreed, but I don’t want to get it now, not when the back of my neck is all scabbed over and red, obviously from the excessive scratching that occurred a few nights ago. 

Despite the fact that I do not cut anymore, that doesn’t change the fact that I do harm myself.

It just happens in other ways.

For different reasons.


	5. Manipulated

Despite the fact that I am perfectly capable of taking care of myself, and just overall being okay, there are points where I’m just not, and there are people I rely on to just be there for me and comfort me.

A majority of the time, I do get comforted, and they help me.

Other times, I end up a wreck because of them.

In middle, it was sixth grade, I met a boy named Cody. We talked, and there was nothing interesting; there was no spark. We only talked in the only class we had, some sort of knock off of an English class, something I can’t recall much of. All I remember is this girl, Ventong, someone I was only acquaintances with, telling me constantly that Cody and I would be cute together.

I always laughed it, but it was always something she brought up. I couldn’t just ignore it.

Cody was weird. He always hung out around a tree, and he never wanted to talk to anyone. He was one of the people, where if they were depressed, they would decline any sort of help. Just because.

One night, I went to my friend’s house, someone I adore very much, and someone I hold close. She is very dear to me, and I love her very much. She’s family to me. 

I’m at her house, for her birthday, and Cody is messaging me that he was going to commit suicide. 

Hours later, Brianna and I had called over our friend Mordecai, and we all gathered around the garage, having a time that consisted of shits and giggles, just trying to lighten the mood. We ended up calling the police.

Few months later, turns out he wasn’t even depressed.

He was just doing it for the hell of it.

I pity dated the fool, and I broke up with him a few days after that happened. I haven’t talked to him since.

In seventh grade, I made friends with someone from Croatia. We were the best of friends, and we talked constantly.

There isn’t much to say about what happened.

We had an unhealthy friendship, where both of us were manipulating the other, and ended up both manipulated.

We took constant breaks from each other, and when we got into an argument one day, over something useless and stupid, and I left the chat, my last words to her being “never talk to me again”.

I made contact with her a few months ago, many months after that had happened, and we had both apologized, and forgiven each other. We are both content with each other, and are currently walking on eggshells with each other, but it’s still nice that we’re still friends. She is very dear to me, and I love her very much. I appreciate everything she does, and how hard she works. She’s a very nice person, and I regret everything I said to her in our arguments. She doesn’t deserve anything that I said to her, and I don’t deserve her, not even the slightest bit.

The last time I was manipulated, was very recent. 

I dated a friend. 

I couldn’t care less about him right now. His name is Osvaldo, and when we were just friends, he was just nice. Everyone said it too- everyone knew him. “Nice, but weird.”

God, if only that applied to when I started dating him.

He rushed everything.

Holding my hand immediately, hugging me, telling me he loves me. I couldn’t handle it, and told him I wanted to end it two days after, to which he told me that we should give it another shot.

After three months, I wanted to break up with him. I didn’t want to be with him anymore, since he kept putting my problems first, kept putting me first. I told him I didn’t want that, that I didn’t want him to do that, and that I was breaking up with him.

A week later, we’re back together, and everything gets worse.

On the first month of the summer, I go to visit some family over in Cleveland. He’s constantly like, “oh, I miss you,” and everything like that. I just wanted to get away from him, and when I do, I realize that no, I don’t want to be with him anymore, and I don’t like him anymore.

I spend time talking to my friend Adelyte, and we watch horror movies at night. I called him one night, while watching a movie, to help cope with the paranoia, since both Adelyte and I were very paranoid, and I couldn’t handle it. He then proceeded to act like it was his problem now, and I yelled at him to not involve himself in things that isn’t his problem. Something along the lines of, “I’m the one that’s paranoid. Not you.”

I didn’t sleep at night, since Adelyte and I watched movies at night.

He messaged me one day when I was at a zoo, asking if I was okay, and if everything was alright, and that he was worried and concerned, all because I wasn’t sleeping at night. I proceeded to tell him that nothing was wrong, and that he should piss off instead of trying to involve himself in every little thing about me. He only told me that he was worried I wasn’t sleeping at night, because when he didn’t sleep at night, he was busy thinking. 

I told him to stop pushing the things he did onto me. I remember him using ‘too’, when he should’ve used ‘to’, and I told him that. He just said “don’t correct me when I already know I’m going to fail English,” and I would’ve gotten into an argument with him, but when I said something, he just brushed it off, or agreed with me.

It pissed me off.

When I get back from Cleveland, I don’t talk to him, and I only talk to my friends. I don’t want to confront him. 

I’m watching a horror movie with Adelyte and Mordecai one night, and I’m enjoying myself. I’m watching a movie with my friends, and I’m happy.

I then get a message from someone on Tumblr, requesting to talk. I figured it was someone who just needed to vent, until they asked me if I was with Osvaldo. Something like that. I tell that person that I was, and then proceeded to question them, asking them to prove that they were someone else, that they weren’t him. It was like a writing style; it was too similar, it was absolutely him. I didn’t entertain the idea, and the moment he said “help us help him” I wished him a good night, and blocked him.

The shitty part of that conversation was that he said “he’s basically on the path to killing himself”, so I was done at that part.

When we talked again, Osvaldo to me, he guilt tripped me, stating that I didn’t go over to his house when I got back from Cleveland. “You know, like you promised.” I was done. I couldn’t stand him. 

At three in the morning, I messaged him. “I lost feelings for you.” Explained more. “I’m breaking up with you.”

Hours later, he messages me back. “You don’t want to do this. Think about this, and message me at eleven.”

I tell him that no, I’m not going to think about it. That I’m done, and I’m breaking up with him.

“I can be better.” “It’s because of me, isn’t it?” “I’m sorry, please don’t leave me.” “Don’t leave me.” “I’ve dealt with this happening to you already, I can do it again.” Are a few things he said, completely ignoring the fact that I told him I didn’t like him anymore.

Hours later, I get a text message, from his brother. On Osvaldo’s phone. “I walked in on Osvaldo holding a knife to his heart, I stopped him and took him to the hospital. He was diagnosed with depression for four months. Do you know why he would do that?” Something like that. The same thing like before. The style that it was all written was too familiar, was too much like him, was too much. “He was almost raped once.” I called bullshit, but didn’t say anything about that. 

I tell him no, to have a good day, and I block the number. 

I call Mordecai. He’s very close to me, also family. I love him so much; he’s always there for me. I’m so happy that Mordecai is there for me when I need him. He’s amazing. 

Mordecai suggested we call the group chat, since we were on Skype, to help me cheer up. So we did, and Osvaldo was in the group, but we figured that he wouldn’t join. 

He did.

I had just finished texting his “brother”, and then he joined the call.

I quickly left the call, and any guilt I felt was immediately replaced with anger. I couldn’t believe, for the third fucking time, I got manipulated. I was pissed. I messaged Adelyte, she’s an EMT, and asked her how long someone would stay in the hospital for attempted suicide, and even looked it up. He should’ve been placed under a suicide watch, or placed in psych, for at least a day, or 72 hours. He was only there for a few hours, and the whole “diagnosed with depression for four months” was an obvious lie. That wasn’t how it worked.

Mordecai stayed in the call, and had stated that he kept breathing loudly, and when Mordecai pointed it out, Osvaldo would just say he was “sucking ghost dick”. The “almost raped” comment seemed like a lie at that point.

I blocked him on everything, and tried to never speak to him again.

He’s transphobic, thinking that they just have some sort of body dysphoria (and being transgender isn’t a body dysphoria, that’s the wrong term), and believed that non-binary people were going through a phase.

I had told him I was non-binary, that I was agender, and used they/them pronouns. He acted like I had told him I was diagnosed with a very serious disease, which I wasn’t. 

I’m just disappointed in the fact that I’m stupid enough to allow myself to get manipulated once again, and didn’t even process that I was manipulated until I talked to the school counselor, and she told me that I was definitely manipulated.

I just don’t want to trust anyone anymore.  


	6. Lamentation

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Someone passed away at my school.
> 
> I never knew them.

Recently, someone from my class passed away. 

It was over a month ago. I had no idea who they were, and their existence had no significant value to my life, but their death, while hasn't affected me greatly, caused a great amount of pain in others that are closer to me. 

I won't be naming names, but I wish that they are in a better place now, and that they are at peace. I will not be speaking of their cause of death, with all respect to them and their family. 

My friend was close with the person who tragically passed, and while I have trouble expressing myself, picking up on social cues, and with empathy, it was so painfully easy to realize how sad she was. 

She was lamenting the death of someone I did not know, and I felt like I didn't have a right to say anything on the matter. I have never dealt with the death of someone close to me, and I will not deal with grief any time soon, hopefully. But where I am in my life, I have never dealt with the death of someone close to me. 

I can't remember the day clearly. I was walking in a haze, while my friend spent a majority of the day crying. 

I have a lot of opinions of the topic of death, loss, and grief, but I never feel like I have a right to talk about them. Never have I dealt with it. 

My friend was talking to me when we were walking to our third period, and because the person who passed was in her second period, we were talking about it.

My friend kept repeating the same thing throughout the day. “They're in a better place now.” 

At that point, I just told her what was on my mind. Yes, the person is in a better place now, but you're still here, and you're grieving, you are dealing with a tragedy. You can't come back from this. Things are really shitty right now, and people and media can say you'll get over it in as many ways as possible, the truth is that it's real shit right now, but one day it's just going to be less shit. Death is not an easy matter, and it never gets any easier. 

Grief a long, ugly process, and it is a dark room with the shades drawn. Grief is a room where no one is allowed to come in, nor look into, unless they hold residence there. It is not simple, but it is not as complex either. Grief is a dark room, shades drawn, door shut and locked, with only one occupant. It is cold, and it is lonely. The days are counted, and it only makes the process worse. 

I've never dealt with grief, loss, or death. But I've read many things about the aforementioned to understand the basic gist of it to say that death is a shitty thing.

It's simple in theory, but the emotions dealt with afterwards in other is so complex, I cannot exaggerate. It is hard dealing with loss, and it is hard to help someone who is dealing with it.

I still have no idea. 

I don't want to know what grief is like firsthand. 

I don't know how I’ll be able to cope with it.

I wish I knew what to do, but I’m blind to the process.


	7. Tease

I haven’t spoken of this a lot.

I’ve recently ended up spilling this to a friend, and he barely had an understanding of what had went on in my previous relationship.

I’m very hesitant in writing about this. Writing about it makes it real. I’ve pushed the events into the back of my mind, and only fully acknowledged a lesser event only a few months ago. It only dawned upon me, with tear stained cheeks, shaky hands, and a friend saying “that’s fucked up” for me to actually realize how messed up it all was.

I’m young. I’m not comfortable with saying how young, but I’m not legally an adult yet.

If I had the ability to say no, then none of this would’ve happened. If I had the ability to stand up for myself, if my confidence wasn’t fake, then none of it would’ve happened.

But it still did.

There’s this upperclassman, Xavier. I considered him my friend for a semester or so, and then I hated his guts.

My math teacher did things weirdly. We had notes as homework, and homework as notes, if that makes any sense.

One day, almost no one in class did the notes. Only a select few- myself being one of them. He said, “at the end of class, the people who did the notes can get a piece of candy.” I thought it was great.

Free candy, right?

It was bittersweet, in the end.

That day, we had a debate match. There was one at another high school every Wednesday, until debate season was over, anyways. I was on the team, and our couches liked for us to look formal. I was wearing some stockings, heels, a skirt, and a long sleeved. I was comfortable, and I felt pretty.

When it came to the end of class, my teacher got out the candy, and said anyone who did the notes can come get one. He already named the people who did it at the beginning of class.

Xavier looked over at me, and told me, “Hey, don’t forget to get that piece of candy.”

I was being snarky. “Why are you reminding me?”

_**“Because I want to see you walk in that skirt.”** _

And what did I do?

I got up. Walked. Got candy. And I was ashamed the whole time.

I think it’s my fault that he said that. That if I wasn’t wearing a skirt, it wouldn’t have happened.

I just wanted to feel nice for the debate match.

I don’t talk to Xavier anymore.

I had a friendship turned relationship with someone. They currently mean nothing to me, but everything that happened still has me shaking and such whenever I think about it too much.

When we were in the relationship, we were telling each other things. The conversation wasn’t safe for work, and I’m sure he started it. He asked me what I was into, and I asked him what he was into.

Color me disgusted when he said footjobs.

After we broke up, it made me think back to a time before the relationship started, when we were just friends and I was at his house in winter. We were down stairs, and my socks, shoes, and feet were soaking wet. I had my feet in front of a heater, and was complaining about my feet.

_**“You have nice feet.”** _

I brushed it off at the moment. People always said things like that. I’m ugly. No you’re not. I hate my hands. You have nice hands. Whatever.

The meaning changed when I was told he had a foot fetish.

This was the relationship I had that just sucked all the joy out of my life. Where all the crying and shakiness comes from when I talk about it to someone.

As of right now, it’s been a year since I broke up with him, but I still haven’t gotten over everything that happened. It doesn’t really feel real, when I think about it. But I still think it’s my fault that it happened. I know it’s not, but I think it is.

I guess I have to talk about it now. Apparently it’s supposed to help, but instead of telling this to someone close, I’m writing it out and sharing it to the general public. Just to amuse them.

One time, when I was over at my ex’s house, his family came home and he went downstairs to help unload groceries and such. He was suspicious of me looking into a box he had right next to his bed, but I couldn't care for it. It didn’t pique my interest in anyway, so I just went on my phone.

He came back upstairs, asked if I wanted a popsicle, to which I said yes. Me being me, I bite my popsicles. Men are disgusting, hence why. Of course, I’m just on my phone, enjoying the aforementioned popsicle in bliss, and then I finish it.

_**“I thought it was going to be more sexual.”** _

I never thought I would hear that, after just eating a popsicle. I didn’t want to imagine what would’ve happened if I had eaten it how he thought I would’ve, if he would’ve said something else, if he would’ve just watched me like I was just there for his pleasure.

I hated it, it was uncomfortable. I was so uncomfortable. I wanted to ask him why he offered in the first place if he thought it was going to be more sexual, but I didn’t want to know. I couldn’t find it in me to ask, as if knowing something like that could be worse than it actually turned out.

I overlooked what happened. It disgusted me, made me embarrassed, humiliated, uncomfortable. I never wanted to eat anything that could even resemble those parts for months, and I avoided doing so in every way possible.

I pushed those events to the back of my mind. I couldn’t think about what happened, so I pretended it didn’t happen, and never told anyone it happened until a couple months ago.

There were other moments.

He would always want to talk to me. Somehow he still had time for friends and family, and I didn’t. He always wanted to be in a call with me, and if we weren’t, he was texting me. It was annoying, and I couldn’t have time to myself. Always wanting to talk to me, I couldn’t read, always bugging me about what I was writing when I said I was doing so, just no way I had time to myself.

So whenever I wanted to do something like just read, or write, without interruption, I would tell him I was masturbating.

He left calls many time, whenever I entertained him and told him things I was into. He would leave to jack off, I would read and eat peacefully.

_**“What were you thinking of? How many fingers were you using?”** _

I don’t know why I kept the act up. Why I just continued to lie about it. Telling him I watched porn, or brought up the idea of me using my own imagination. That I used one finger. It’s all my fault, that he was comfortable talking about these things.

I don’t know why it’s my fault. It just is. I feel like I warranted it, that everything I did makes it valid, for all of this to happen. That I deserve it.

And yeah. I guess I do. It’s my fault this happened to me.

All of this. It’s nothing big, nothing small. It happened, and I don’t think I have anyone to blame but myself.

There’s one more time.

I was at home. We were texting. He was busy, I guess. I don’t know, I don’t care. The conversation was messy, and just sexual.

It was bad, and I hated it.

He was saying things, and I encouraged, even though I didn’t want it to happen.  
He was saying that the most we could do as teenagers was him fingering me, and I was going to let it happen. I gave him the go ahead over text, but immediately I didn’t want it to happen.

I couldn’t say no anymore, for some reason. My vocal chords never wanted to work, and my fingers could never type out what I wanted to say.

_**“Don’t wear jeans or anything, cause you know. . . big hands.”** _

I ended up wearing shorts, still going to his house.

His mother ended up saying no to me going in his room.

I don’t like thinking what would’ve happened if his mom didn’t say anything. If I would’ve just let it happen, push him off of me, cry, tell him no, the possibilities are endless, but I don’t want to know what would’ve happened. I don’t want to know ever.

I can’t help but think that this all happened because I provoked it, because I was being a tease about it, and that everyone would agree. That the first comment on this series of memoirs would be something terrible. Something like, “this all happened because it’s your fault. You deserved it.”

I just feel like I’m to blame.


End file.
